The Phoenix Flower
by Dysfunctional Mystery
Summary: She died. She was reborn. But life in one world cannot be the same as life in the last.


**Chapter One**

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Dying is easy. Living is what scares the hell out of me. ~Unknown

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Let me put this simply before you get any crazy idea's in your head. I am dead. I died. I remember it. The gun was placed to my head—_oh god I'm going to die, this is the end, what about Kim, what about little Davie, what about—_then the trigger was pulled and _BAM_ I was dead. There was no sensation, no emotions. I was drifting and then just as suddenly—

Pulling, twisting, tugging, turning, yanking, squeezing—

And then blinding, blurry light. Shapes and voices talking that I couldn't make heads nor tails of. Someone picked me up and I was aware that there was something _terribly_ wrong. I was dead. I had to be dead. I'd been shot in the head for the love of god! I couldn't be alive!

I felt small, frightened, and vulnerable. My voice would do nothing more than produce a whimper and a long warbling wail.. I could say nothing, ask nothing. People spoke in some language around me, their voices frantic. Then I felt someone moving me and I didn't know where I was going. I let out another wail.

Someone picked me up again, scaring me. My wail grew louder. I was confused, frightened, and angry. If I wasn't dead then _why wasn't someone telling me what was happening?_ Why didn't anyone explain? And why did I feel so small?

And what about the itching, tickling, _feeling_ inside of me? What was that? It twisted and turned around me, spreading and strengthening as time passed. I felt it and committed the feeling of it to memory, letting it flow in and around me at my whim. I got its shape and soon manipulating it, finding it, feeling it—it all became second nature, although I could do very little manipulation.

Once the feeling was familiar to me—something I estimated took about three weeks—I stopped crying so much. I could sense the relief in the voices of the people around me. I no longer let myself panic when I was picked up or moved about. I came to realize what some of the motions were. Changing my diaper, feeding me (made obvious by the food that came into my mouth from a bottle) and other things people did to take care of babies.

The most logical explanation I could come up with was reincarnation. When I'd died, some God or higher being had decided to shove me in an infant's body. I could think of no reason except convenience. I'd died at just the right time. Or maybe I'd just jumped from one body to another and the God had decided to see how things played out.

It made me feel like a puppet and I didn't like it.

The longer I was in the infant's body, the more appreciation I had for the people taking care of me. I began to get a grasp in the language which was similar to japanese. I had a background in japanese due to my obsession with manga. I'd wanted to be able to watch the subbed versions and understand it. I'd wanted to travel there after college so I'd taken classes in highschool and in college. I'd been in my last year to get my masters degree when this happened.

Despite my background, the language was still fairly difficult to pick up. Some of the words were slightly different and it took me awhile to get those differences I had the language down—or at least the basics—I learned that it was my aunt and uncle taking care of me, not my mother. She was in the hospital having had a difficult labor. She was supposed to be getting out soon.

The language would have made me think I was reborn in japan if it wasn't for the differences. They jarred at my mind, theories and suspicions whirling around. Ridiculously, I had a small yet faint hope that it would be like a fanfiction. Reborn into the world of Naruto to become a shinobi and do great things! I wouldn't count myself that lucky however. And i wasn't stupid enough to think that I'd been reborn in another universe entirely.

Except...

There were little things, snippets of conversation. In the six weeks that I'd been an infant, I'd heard words like shinobi, kunai, Hokage, Yondaime, chunin, and jonin. I wanted to deny it, for fear that it would be true and my idealistic dreams would be crushed by a harsh reality. Life in a world of ninjas wouldn't be sunshine and daisies. Shinobi life was dangerous and if I was in that world, I wasn't sure I could consider myself brave enough to become a shinobi.

I really didn't want to die again.

I never considered any of that good enough proof. I dismissed the thought, trying desperately to focus on the small little world that I knew now. Just my aunt, my uncle, and a mother that was in the hospital. I never heard mention of the word father and I didn't dwell on it too much. I had a dad already.

When I was about two months old, I got proof that I was in another world. I could have done without it.

Because you see, it was the night the Kyuubi attacked the village.

The chakra in the air was horrifying. Twisted, rage filled, hatred incarnate—I wanted to say evil except I knew that it wasn't just this, that the Kyuubi acted against its will. But it still_ terrified_ me—paralyzing my tiny body. I could hear it's roars, hear screams, and I knew—could almost _feel_—all the lives being taken.

I wailed and wailed and wailed, long after the chakra had disappeared. Because I knew now that my mother was a kunoichi and she had died. I could hear the broken sobs of my aunt, the pleading whispers of my uncle for me to sleep. But my mind was stuck in the fear that the Kyuubi struck into an infant. It was hours before I calmed down.

Days afterwards, I was left to think desperately to think of my past. Anything to distract myself from the grief hanging low over the house, from the depressed aura that wrapped itself around the village. It sank into the hearts of the villagers and I was loath to let it into me.

So I thought about my best friend, Garret. He'd been Naruto crazy just like me. A gay with a tendency to crush on manga characters, he'd been a Sasuke fanboy. I'd had many an argument with him over that. I had a healthy respect for Sasuke Uchiha and understood why he did what he did.

But that didn't stop me from thinking he was the stupidest, dumbest, most idiotic and moronic character in the manga. Garret thought he was the best thing since fried chicken and tried to prove it to me. I wouldn't be swayed. I could adore Itachi and I could laugh about the Akatsuki with all their crazy as hell members but the main spot of all time favorite Naruto character was reserved for the Naruto himself.

I respected him. He didn't let the hatred weigh him down. When he was pushed down he got right back up again and kept on going, straight towards his dreams. He was determined and kind. He was a believer of second chances. This determination in the face of so much opposition was what adhered me to Naruto. He was strong in a different way from Sasuke's physical strength.

For a few weeks, thinking of Garret kept my mind away from the grief that held the village in its cold grasp. But once I'd exhausted thoughts of him and thoughts of my other life, I was left with nothing. I grew bored. I wanted to learn, to explore, to walk. Anything to escape the boredom was welcome.

But nothing came.

And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. My aunt and uncle had suddenly grown very distant with me. They fed me, bathed me, took care of me...but there was a cold detachment that froze my veins. I didn't like it. It scared me.

Each day that passed and the coldness in their eyes only grew. I began to worry. The more distant they acted, the more I began to fear that I had not been born into a loving family. Suspicion that maybe they'd only cared while my mother was alive, only cared _because_ of her, took root in my heart.

I hoped that maybe it had to do with their grief over her death. Maybe it would go away. I hoped, I prayed, I silently begged. But when I cried from nightmares no one came. When I began to go longer without being fed, I knew something was seriously wrong.

I saw my chances of a good life going down the drain. Maybe it was Karma's way of repaying me. The only bad thing that had happened in my last life was my death. Maybe I was overdue for a severe bout of bad luck. Maybe whatever God was up there thought making this life a hell would be entertaining. Maybe that's just the way this kids life would have played out had I not been born into this body.

But would there have been another soul or conciousness in place of me? Had I taken someone else's place in this world? Or was I an anomaly not meant to be here, someone unexpected and unintended? That seemed the likely answer.

At one year old, things took a turn for the worse. Where before I'd only been missing a few meals, a few baths, spending more time alone than was really good for me—now they set me to work. If I didn't do it right the first time I was forced to do it over and over again until it was right to their _exact_ requirements.

I likened the situation to Cinderella and nearly laughed when I thought of the ridiculousness of my situation. Reborn into another world, only to have a life that was so far turning out to be far from great. When I collapsed in bed, exhausted—my small limbs so unfit for labor shaking like a leaf in the wind—I would imagine myself growing to rise past this. I'd be a fearsome shinobi, I'd stop all the terrible future events from happening.

It was a fool's dream but it was the only thing keeping my heart strong. I may have had the mind of an adult, but I was greatly influenced by my younger body. I had child's reactions and child's instincts. And I couldn't fight back against my aunt and uncle. They were stronger, they were bigger. So I made myself meek on the outside and tried to keep my true personality bright and vibrant on the inside.

I knew my only hope of getting away from them was becoming a shinobi. I was loathe to be forced into it but I couldn't see myself having any other choice. If I didn't learn to defend myself, I'd be useless when they got physical.

And at the rate things were going, I was certain that it would be soon.

I was three when Uncle first raised his hand to me. I'd been told to clean the kitchen until the floors shone and there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. According to him I'd missed a spot. If you asked me, he just wanted a reason to hit me. So I let him raise a hand against me and I didn't cover my cheek where he'd slapped me. I kept my head averted and didn't meet his gaze, ever the meek little girl.

By then, my emotions felt stunted. Everything I felt seemed distant, like I'd detached myself and was watching it all from outside of my own mind. I wondered many times why I didn't tell someone what was happening. Then I realized that it had long since become normal for me.

The rational part of my mind screamed out that I _should not_ be accepting it all so meekly. That what I was doing was the _exact opposite_ of what I should have been doing. I'd been told my entire life that if I was being abused I should go to a trusted adult. But in a world that wasn't my own, who was I supposed to trust? My aunt and uncle didn't have guests over, they didn't talk to their friends around me. I had no one I could trust.

So for my third year of life reborn, I endured the slaps and hits with an emotional detachment that I found alarming. But even that feeling was distant and left no trace of permanence in my mind.

For my fourth birthday, they actually gave me the day off. I think it was more to keep up appearances, to let me be seen unharmed and healthy, but nonetheless I was grateful for a day to myself. I left the house early and ran.

By the time I reached the park, my breathing was labored and I was drenched in a thin layer of sweat. But I was out of the house, away from them, and on my own. I felt a thrill deep in my blood at the thought. For a little while at least, I could be imperfect.

"Stay away from him! He's dangerous!"

"Come play over here, away from _that_ boy. You have to stay away from him."

"He isn't worth the air he breathes..."

"Demon..."

"Monster..."

I looked towards the center of the park, seeing a shock of blonde hair. He was the same age as me and he was alone. The parents herded their children away from him, casting him hateful glances. He stood and watched them walk away, a heartbreaking look in his eyes. I glanced at the children who followed their parents away and recognized their younger faces.

Shikamaru, Hinata, Kiba...

I turned back to Naruto. He didn't move to protest or stop them. He watched them as they began to play away from him but he did nothing to change it. I wondered how alike we were and how similar we'd have been if my personality hadn't been to drastically altered.

I looked towards the other children before I walked towards Naruto. We were both cursed due to circumstance, both of us lost our parents to the Kyuubi. Circumstance placed me in this world and circumstance had him be born the night of the Kyuubi attack. But without him, the village would have been destroyed.

I reached his side as he reached the swings at the edge of the park. He sat down on one, his head hanging low. I walked behind him and gave him a gentle push, startling him. He jerked around to stare at me, wide-eyed and amazed. I motioned for him to turn around and once he did, I pushed him again. Soon he was going pretty high and laughing the entire time.

I felt better having made him smile.

When he came to a stop, the grin was firmly in place. He bounced over to me, a bundle of energy and all smiles. There was the faintest flicker of doubt in his eyes but the smile stayed in place.

"I'm Naruto!" he said. "What's your name?"

I opened my mouth to respond...and realized _I didn't know my name._ I knew my other name but I didn't know who I had been born here. I'd always been called girl or child. Never an actual name. I looked at him and shrugged helplessly. I didn't know.

Or maybe I didn't have a name.

"You're not going to tell me?" he asked. He took a step back, looking wary suddenly. I threw my hands out, shaking my head frantically. I couldn't speak even when I opened my mouth to try.

I'd never said a word in this life, not once. I placed a hand on my throat and then let it fall, meeting his gaze. He frowned, puzzled by my behavior, before light dawned in his gaze. "You can't talk can you?"

I shook my head, a hand covering my throat. I felt a blush burn on my cheeks. I'd taught myself to understand the language, to read, and managed to practice writing to an extent. But I'd never had a reason to talk. I'd never even _considered_ it. So my vocal cords were underdeveloped.

I felt rather stupid.

"So...do you even have a name?"

I shrugged and shook my head. Detached, emotionless. I didn't even really care that I couldn't talk and had no name. What did it matter really? There was no one to care for me, no one to call my name. So why should I even care if I had a name or not?

It wasn't like it mat—

"Then I'll call you Hana!"

I blinked, focusing in on a grinning Naruto. Hana? He'd call me Hana?

A warm feeling—not unlike a burning ember—took root in my chest. It wasn't a distant feeling this time, it was present directly in my heart. I felt a smile curl my lips. I nodded, letting him know that I liked the name.

"Great! Well, Hana-chan, what should we do now?"

I spent the entire day hanging out with Naruto. We kept out of sight and away from most of the adults, but it was fun. I felt more that day than I had since the night of the Kyuubi attack. I felt awkward and it was difficult to not be able to talk, but I was content.

But eventually it was late and I had to go home. So I said—well, _waved_—goodbye to Naruto and headed home.

I didn't get a very warm welcome.


End file.
